Breathe Again

Chapter 6

Twelve hours later, Sterling woke up on the floor between his kitchen and bedroom, still leaking blood. Even in his current weakened state, he knew he needed help, or he would be dead by daybreak.

He nearly fainted getting the saddle placed and securely cinched before he managed to drag himself up onto Fancy. And just in case he blacked out along the way to Doc Ashfield's, he tied a rope around his waist and secured it to the pommel.

The lush foliage of the valley passed by in a delirious blur until at last, he found himself on the main road headed toward town.

Darkness surrounded him, broken only by a sliver of moonlight breaking free of the clouds moving slowly overhead. The strange light created haunting shadows of homes and barns and turned the silhouetted trees into grotesque statues.

Blood dripped down his arm and hip; saturating his sleeve and pant leg and tainting the air with its sharp metallic scent. At one point along the way, he wondered if the arduous trip for help would ever end.

He didn't pass a single person out on the road, and no lights from the homesteads he thought should be there broke up the tree-lined scenery. But then it was too early for anyone to be up just yet and dawn wouldn't be yawning its way over the jagged mountain peaks for at least four more hours.

Each step Fancy took jarred his battered body, setting his teeth on edge and bringing tears to his eyes. Two more miles and he would finally be there.

Forcing his eyes open, after foggily realizing he had passed out somewhere along the way, he blinked several times before recognizing Ashfield's place just ahead. He fought to stay awake and nudged Fancy to a faster pace to eat up the remaining distance.

With a ragged groan, he pulled Fancy to a stop in front of Doc Ashfield's three-room log cabin, then cleared his throat and tried calling for help. He almost laughed when the only sound that emerged was a pitiful noise even a squirrel would have been ashamed to utter.

Sterling licked dry lips with a parched tongue, but his next attempt produced another ineffectual squeak. Four more failed attempts later, he gave up. The more he tried, the worse the results grew, and the more strength he wasted. Only one option remained if he wanted to alert Ashfield to his desperate need.

So, Sterling withdrew his pistol, fired a shot into the air, and waited. Time ticked by in agonizing slowness. Just as he prepared to fire for the second time, the door flung open.

Ashfield stood before him in a wrinkled nightshirt, his eyes wide with alarm, a shotgun held in a steady grip and aimed at Sterling's chest. His curly red hair stood up in wild disarray.

If Sterling possessed the strength, he would have laughed; but he could only manage a slight twitching of his lips while waiting to see if Ashfield would shoot him and put him out of his misery.

When Ashfield recognized whom he was aiming at, he lowered his weapon and grumbled, "A simple knock wouldn't have sufficed?"

A weary grin creased Sterling's his face while he clumsily holstered his pistol. "Sorry Ashfield," he slurred, now trying to get his useless fingers to untie the knot around his waist. "I think I need some assistance..."

Ashfield leaned his shotgun against the doorframe and grabbed a lantern hanging from a hook by the door before stepping toward Sterling. He picked up his pace when he saw both dried and fresh blood covering Sterling from head to toe.

A large section of Sterling's shirt had been torn away and hung past his thighs, revealing four deep gashes on his left side seeping blood. It saturated the waist and leg of his pants and formed a small pool on the ground.

Removing the bowie knife strapped to his thigh, Sterling sliced at the rope and missed, nearly cutting his fingers off in the process.

Ashfield set the lantern down a safe distance away and laid a calming hand over the weapon. "Better let me do that; looks like you could use a little help."

At Sterling's nod of agreement, Ashfield deftly removed the weapon from Sterling's limp grasp and sliced the rope in two. "Are you strong enough to walk on your own?"

Sterling slowly blinked at Ashfield, struggling to find the words floating around his scattered mind. He swallowed and shook his head, but tried to dismount anyway.

Ashfield stepped forward and wrapped his brawny arms around Sterling's waist, pulling him from the saddle and settling him across his broad shoulders.

Blood soaked his nightshirt within the first few minutes when he carried the much larger man into his cabin and over to his examining table with ease. After setting him down, Ashfield pushed Sterling to lie flat and began cutting the tattered remains of the bloodstained shirt away.

"Doc-" Sterling slurred, "I think I'm gonna..."

Ashfield watched Sterling's eyes roll back in his head then worked at pulling the material free. His eyes flew to Sterling's face in amazement when the full extent of the damage met his gaze.

A poor attempt had been made to stitch several of the wounds closed—most likely the only reason Sterling had survived this long. Ashfield clucked his tongue and shook his head. He certainly had his work cut out for him tonight.

With grim determination, he settled into doing everything he could to ensure the man survived the grievous wounds marring his flesh.

He'd seen enough death throughout four grueling years of war while working in a battlefield hospital to last him several lifetimes. He refused to allow Sterling to join the numbers of men who still haunted his nights, accusing him with their dead stares for not being able to save them.